


Surf

by quandong_crumble



Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Implied Relationships, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, under 1000 words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 20:21:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2595239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quandong_crumble/pseuds/quandong_crumble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Iron Man 3, Tony’s having a little trouble facing the water again. Rhodey tries to be there for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surf

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the popular fanon that Tony has/had PTSD issues with water post-Afghanistan, and that his dunking in IM3 would have compounded those issues and set back any recovery.
> 
> OT3 is implied only, sorry.
> 
> _If you think you've seen this before, you probably saw it on tumblr when it was originally posted in March. I'm moving some of my longer/better tumblr fics to AO3._

“It shouldn’t be this hard.”

Jim glances over at where Tony is standing next to him, right on the edge of the water. His surfboard is tucked under his arm but unbalanced, the tail dragging on the ground, unlike Jim’s. “I know,” he says, at loss for what else to say.

“I was better, I was over this,” Tony continues as though he hasn’t heard. “I could get in the pool, I even went surfing once or twice with you. Now—”

 _Now_. Now Tony’s back to three minute showers and avoiding open bodies of water, sitting with his back towards the ocean view as much as possible. Pepper tried to coax him into the tub, once, but Tony had just sat on the bathroom floor next to her instead, occasionally leaving to fetch them fresh drinks. She’d chalked it up as a win; Tony had called it a complete failure. Jim’s only happy that he hasn’t closed them out this time—no locked workshop doors and inventing binges.

“You’re in control here, Tone,” Jim soothes. “We go out as far as you like, stay in the water as long as you like. If you just want to stand here for a bit, that’s fine too.”

“I know,” Tony snaps. A wave breaks and races up the sand, reaching further than its fellows to dampen the tips of their toes. Tony flinches, but doesn’t retreat.

“You’re in control,” Jim repeats. “You’re a strong swimmer. You have a surfboard. The waves are pretty small, and I’m right here. I can help you, or not—just say the word.”

“I know! I know,” Tony says. “Shut up, Rhodey, or I’m going to hit you over the head with my surfboard and leave you here for the seagulls.”

Jim laughs. “You can try, hot shot.”

He half expects Tony to make an effort, to feint at him or shove him in the shoulder or something. Instead he just laughs a little hollowly and flinches as another wave laps at their toes.

They stand in silence for a long time, the sun beating down on their bare heads and shoulders, until every wave wets their feet instead of just the biggest ones. Tony stops flinching, but he’s tense, almost vibrating.

“Tide’s coming in,” Jim says, just for something to say. It’s hardly silent, between the susurrus of waves and the shrieking of gulls on the cliff, but the stillness between them is thick and suffocating. He props his board in the sand and rolls out the stiffness in his shoulder, wincing at the pull of tired muscle. Tony doesn’t reply.

The next wave races up over the tops of his feet, lapping almost at his ankles, and Jim watches Tony out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t react. The sand he’s standing on gets tugged away by the retreating wave, tickling and making him feel undermined. Unstable. It’s like a bad metaphor for his life since everything went down on the Roxxon tanker.

They’re silent again, and Jim watches Tony watch the waves tug the sand away. Eventually, the water is at their shins and Jim’s pretty sure Tony at least is sunburnt—the skin on his own face and neck feels hot and tight too—when Tony starts fidgeting.

“Pepper will be home soon,” he says.

Jim nods. “Yeah. Want to go up?”

“Yeah.”

Jim tucks his board back under his arm and they wade through the shallow water to where they left their flip-flops at the bottom of the stairs. Jim doesn’t bother putting his on, just picks them up to carry up the steps to the beach house they’re renting. After a moment, Tony readjusts his surfboard and does the same.

“Try again tomorrow?” Jim asks with false cheer.

“Yeah, sure,” Tony says. He stops to stare out at the water again, and lets out a long, frustrated sigh. “You’re going to get stick of standing on the beach with me.”

“Probably,” Jim admits. It’s true; it’s frustrating to see Tony set back like this. It’s frustrating to be ready for a swim or a surf and then to stand on the beach for hours, feeling like he can’t get in the water until Tony does. “I think you’ll swim before that happens, though. I’m more patient than you are.”

That prompts another hollow laugh, and Tony turns his back on the ocean to climb the steps. Jim follows, feeling a little like he’s guarding his friend from the sea, then feeling ridiculous for thinking that.

“Hey Rhodey?” Tony says when they reach the top. “Thanks.”


End file.
